Sunrise
by NotAContrivance
Summary: Post-Fall, Lizzie Bennet Diaries. When you're in love, you always think it's gonna last forever. ... Lydia misses George, even though she knows she shouldn't. She just... can't help it.


Being in Economics class apparently induces me to write LBD fic. *shrugs* It's longer than I intended, and probably in some way rough, so I apologize if there are typos or anything.

So this is a one-shot slice of post-Fall Lydia. It's pretty vague for the obvious reasons and probably in some way inaccurate for those same reasons. But I guess I just wanted to explore the lies Lydia tells herself and the fact that her getting over George isn't going to be easy, and it probably won't be something we actually get to see.

Anyway, I don't own the Lizzie Bennet Diaries or Pride and Prejudice. Nor do I pretend to, sadly. Reviews are highly appreciated, and I really hope you like it!

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Lydia had recently gotten into the habit of staring out of windows in quiet moments. Not the way Darcy had, once, to avoid facing things and being too obvious, but to think, to gaze out of it with a faraway stare and imagine the world outside, the life she could've lived. Her thoughts trended, invariably, back to George Wickham and the Big Mistake she'd made there. Lydia wasn't big on introspection, but the way everything had blown up, the fall... it had changed her.

Sometimes she couldn't stand to be around her sisters anymore; their concern, their palpable _guilt_ was... smothering. None of their videos have ever really showed how miserable they are and have been in between frames and filmings. New Jane was different, a little less buoyant and more determined. Lydia could see that she was disappointed in her even though Jane tried to assure her that everything was fine. Lizzie... she'd come back from Pemberley a different person—she was quiet, pale, and retreating into herself more than she ever had. When she'd come back, Lydia had expected her to be angry, to say "I told you so" or be smug in that she was right about everything, but Lizzie was apologetic, careful with her, always walking on eggshells around her. The spark that she so loved about Lizzie had dimmed, that challenging nature was almost gone entirely.

No one needed to tell Lydia that was her fault too.

Lydia knew they meant well, and she loved them more than ever for what they were trying to do, but they were always there, never leaving her alone, always trying to distract her. They treated her with kid gloves, like she was made of glass. Their lack of judgment was somehow worse still, like they didn't realize at the end of the day that she was responsible for her own actions and choices. And everything they did... it only served to make her think of him more or to make her feel worse. Jane gave her makeovers and brought her tea and baked cookies for her—her favorite kind, without asking, but Lydia had no appetite. Lizzie tried to make her laugh, and, failing that, she did what she could to distract their parents and draw their ire away from her. Lizzie bought her chocolate and watched any movie Lydia could think of to distract her, even offered repeatedly to go to Carter's.

Lizzie had tried to play _The Wizard of Oz_ once, but all Lydia could think of was golden hair and a sunny smile... and how it was like she'd been in bright, exciting, adventurous Oz, way up high where bluebirds fly, and she'd come crashing painfully back down to earth, to the colorless, dusty flatland of Depression-Era Kansas. Lydia had started crying outright—but not just crying—big, ugly, fat sobbing tears that tore through her—when Dorothy had started tapping her heels together and reciting "There's no place like home" like a litany. This "home" offered no comfort because, as she realized with a sudden, painful clarity, somewhere along the way, George and his place (his ridiculous, just above a frat-house rental) had become _home_ to her. The home of her childhood had been demoted to a place of memories, a place where she stored things.

Things that weren't her heart—George still had at least half of it, like some kind of lame friendship necklace.

Her sisters looked at her furtively, hopefully, like they expected her to wake up and suddenly become her sunny, sparkling self again any day now. They didn't know what to do, and they were scared; they'd never seen her like this so... quiet and lethargic. She wanted to try, for them, but she couldn't. She was so... _tired_, and she couldn't pretend she was fine anymore when she wasn't. She'd had a lifetime of silencing her cries and hiding her emotions, and look where it had gotten her. No, she was done with putting on a brave face or any kind of face at all.

Lydia knew exactly how badly she'd almost screwed everything up for them, for herself and her entire family. She knew exactly how lucky she was and how bad it could've been, and she felt her own role in it heavily... but her sisters weren't even mad, not really. Not at her, at least. And she felt heavier, ashamed, almost sick to her stomach to think about him (like every thought was a betrayal to her sisters, after all they'd done for her), but she couldn't help it. There were lots of awkward silences, and thoughts of him, bits of memory filtered down in to fill those cracks.

But she shouldn't think about him because he was every bad word in the book according to Lizzie. "He's not worth your time or your tears," someone had said once, sharply. "This is just the way he operates. He takes advantage of your vulnerabilities and trust. He gets under your skin and settles there until it festers. It's what he does," Darcy had said matter-of-factly, like none of it was genuine. "You deserve better, Lydia," another had said in a voice that was meant to be reassuring, "and someday you'll find someone good, someone worthy of you, I promise you. Maybe all of that was true, maybe, but she didn't _want_ anyone else. She didn't love anyone else like that, and she couldn't just... turn it off so easily.

And, all the same, she didn't want to disappoint all of them, to ignore all the progress everyone said she'd made. But she couldn't stop thinking about him.

So she was reduced to stealing moments of solitude to let her mind wander. She could never sleep through the night now, not without him, even with her sisters and Kitty all curled around her. That was the worst part—she'd gotten _used_ to him, and the part of her that woke up in the middle of the night, scared and cold and alone, couldn't help but reach out for him blindly in the darkness, only to be disappointed when her hand met nothing but cold sheets or too-soft skin. That was the sickest part, that part of her still expected him to be there, that she was still so accustomed to waking up to his face, and all of her was disappointed when he wasn't.

So then, in the ensuing weeks when she couldn't sleep, she got up quietly from her bed and climbed the creaky stairs up to the attic. She found the windowseat she'd brushed the dust off of, the one by the big bay window at the front of the house, and she'd assume her place there, beginning her silent vigil. She'd sit there, cross-legged, leaning her forehead against the cooler glass and staring down at the street, thinking of him. Her hands would feel their way along her necklace, the one she'd barely taken off since he'd given it to her weeks ago, tracing the chain and smoothing over the stone like it was a rosary, only she drew no comfort or absolution from it.

In the dusty silence of the attic, there was no one and nothing to distract her from the thoughts of him that popped up, unbidden and unwanted. She could stare out the window like she expected to see him again, like she expected him back (and half of her _did_ still want him back, no matter what anyone said). And she would sigh quietly to herself and allow herself to miss him, as much as she hated it and as weak as she felt. More than that, though, she'd run her slender finger along her necklace, sliding it over her skin, just below the hollow of her collarbone, and she'd wait for the sunrise.

She'd watch the deep, inky indigo of midnight turn to the periwinkle blue of twilight. She'd wait for the entire world to go bright, for the sun to break over the horizon and turn the blue into brilliant colors: varying shades of pinks, golds, violets, and tangerine, sometimes with a bit of red, like fire or first love. First love _was_ a brand, except on your heart. Then, sometimes, when she hated herself a bit more than usual, or if it seemed like it would the be the right shade or if she felt like she missed him so badly her chest was caving in, she'd stay to watch the warm colors fade into (sometimes cloudy) azure of the coming sky—a blue that reminded her of George's eyes but was never quite right because his eyes were more like the Caribbean Sea, just a bit greener and so clear you thought you could see all the way to the bottom.

Lydia tried to brace herself for the dawning of every new day without him, but tears still burned at the corners of her eyes every time. She had to tear her eyes from the sun from fear of getting burnt or going blind, crashing and burning like some guy in a Greek story (Lizzie or George would know, damn it) who flew too high. It wasn't so much that she was facing another sunrise and, by extension, _day_ without him, as it was that he was no longer there to share this moment with her. Sunrise (and sunset) had been a special time for them, just the two of them. They would watch together, his arms wrapped around her, his head resting on hers, feeling warm and snuggly.

And sometimes she'd glance over at George and find him staring at her instead of the sunset. He'd always look down like a little boy caught stealing from the cookie jar like the mischievous boy he'd once been. He'd swallowed hard, but he'd turned to face her when her fingers skimmed his jawline, gently tipping up his chin so he would look at her. "I just... I like the way the sun breaks over your face," he said once, almost stammering, all attempts at smoothness gone. "It lights up your eyes," he added a moment later, rubbing his hand on his thigh distractedly. He said other things too, some more eloquent, at other times, but she'd never felt more beautiful than she did at that moment, staring into his eyes, which had never been clearer. In that moment they held a look that was strangely vulnerable, as if he'd been caught off-guard. He hadn't needed to add that she was beautiful or whatever adjective he inserted into the silence because it was written all over his face.

That moment was the first time she'd ever wished she could stop time and make this moment last forever. There was no other place she'd have rather been than there with him. And, gradually, over time, she'd come to imagine a future with him, come to think of this as something they would do for years to come, as something that was _theirs_. For the first time in her life, she could actually see herself having a future with him (with anyone) beyond just the night. She could see herself doing this every night and never getting bored of him or this or how... nice it was.

It had taken her a while, but she finally understood what Jane had meant, how her sister had felt. And so maybe Jane would get it, if she told her, but she didn't want to do that, to watch the pained, worried expression appear on her sister's face again. It was hard to let go.

Then, other times there was a sadness there, but she'd assumed it was other things. Now, thinking back, thinking clearly, she saw it as remorse or, maybe, regret.

How many times had she stayed up with him to watch the sun rise? How many times had they sat there on his porch or in his bed or wherever just... watching the sun rise, the same way they had ever since that night in Vegas when they'd reconnected? And now, every time she did, it struck her that she no longer knew where George was or what he was doing... but a part of her couldn't help but wonder if he was still looking at the sunrise, that same sunrise, and if maybe he spared a thought on the girl he'd left behind. Did he do that anymore? Did he ever do that in the first place, or was that an act too?

But the thing that really made her hold back tears (and fail a little, so that one or two leaked out) was the ceaseless wondering if she had ever meant anything at all to him. It had meant something to her; that hadn't all been in her head, had it? Did anything mean anything to him? The questions and what-ifs haunted her more than the memories. Did he still think of her? Did he think of her the way she thought of him? Had he ever felt anything for her?

It couldn't have _all_ been a lie, an act. Even George wasn't that good to be lying all the time. A part of her knew she was just telling herself that so she could get even a little bit of sleep at night, but what was she supposed to do? George was no longer around to reassure her, let alone even answer her questions.

Ultimately, she can't help but wonder if it was (is) real, any of it—that's what bothers her more than anything else. It had felt real at the time; she couldn't be so completely wrong about things, could she? _Why_, she thinks. That's what she'd ask him if she could, if she wasn't asking a ghost or a shadow that slips through her fingers, untouchable.

She sighed heavily, pulling her legs up, knees up under her chin. Her gaze flicked from the still-dark but slowly illuminating sky to the necklace she wore and the way it glinted in the moonlight.

George didn't give her much. He was a gentleman and almost always paid, but he didn't have much to spend, so he wasn't big on gifts. "You know I'd buy you nice things if I could, right?" he'd said once, wearing a sheepish, almost guilty expression. She hadn't especially cared (her family's previous experiences with wealthy, financially-secure men hadn't gone well at all—whatevs, they were all total douchebuckets anyway).

He would do something like buy her a cupcake or a cookie because he was thinking of her, but anything more concrete was rare. The necklace was a rare gift, one of few that hadn't been practical or something he'd won for her at a carnival or arcade. He'd given it to her on some kind of anniversary; she didn't exactly remember which one now. He'd said he'd seen it in some shop or another, probably one that she'd dragged him to. It wasn't showy or especially expensive, crystal or glass, maybe, just a shiny green stone on a delicate chain, more subdued than her usual style, but she'd liked it all the same.

He'd said he bought it for her "just because," that he'd seen it and the color reminded him of her eyes. Then he'd frowned, amending the statement; it wasn't the color of her eyes, not exactly, but it was the closest he'd seen. He'd shrugged, saying he thought she would like it but saying that he wouldn't be offended if she hated it and took it back. He'd watched her with a wary expression, as if bracing himself for disapproval. It was the nicest thing he'd ever given her, so even if she hated it, she probably still would've kept it. But she didn't hate it, and she didn't tell her sisters either because she knew what they would do.

He'd had other ways of showing his affection, of rewarding you, and he did that with his presence—by always being there. His door was always open, and he never complained or was disappointed when she wanted to stay. And she always wanted to stay. In fact, he wanted to be around her, all the time. George never seemed to find her presence wearying or troublesome or grating, unlike some other people. He went to Carter's with her, her house, coffee, anywhere she wanted to go. He watched the movies she wanted to watch, and he could even be persuaded to sing with her at karaoke if the right song came on.

But, more than that, George _listened_, listened in a way that no one else ever had. He made her feel important and fascinating and all the things she was always trying so hard to be before. He _cared_ what she thought and what she had to say. He asked her about her hopes and her dreams and everything in between, and he never laughed at her when she was being serious, never judged or looked at her like he didn't believe her the way everyone else did.

No one had ever asked her "why" before. And if they had, never in a way that made her _want_ to answer.

But George did, and he cared.

It was a novelty, a man wanting more from her. Of course she'd heard that before, and she knew better than to believe it. It was easier to believe George because he passed every test she could think of. He never pressured her to do anything, never called her a slut or a bitch or a tease, even when things got a little too heated sometimes, back before they'd... Even when she was drunk, back in Vegas, and all she'd wanted to do was get back at Lizzie and she hadn't cared how, George hadn't tried anything, hadn't taken what she would've readily given him without a thought. He'd helped her out, even, been a perfect gentleman.

And night after night after night, he'd let her sleep in his bed, making it clear he expected nothing more of her than for her to fit in his arms and sleep. "I just want you to feel comfortable," he'd said. His gaze turned heated, and his tongue brushed across his lips, lingering a little longer than it might've otherwise. "I would like nothing more... I want you more than I can..." he'd husked, his voice a little strained, reaching for her but thinking the better of it. He'd swallowed hard then, his expression turning more serious. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to do. I know you're new to this whole..." He'd made a helpless gesture, swirling his fingers absently.

"Relationship thing... and I want the both of us to just... take our time getting used to it. This is..." He'd trailed off, licking his bottom lip and tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. She remembered the earnest look on his face, how he'd started looking at her that way after they'd both gotten back from Vegas (or maybe before). And she kept wondering what it was he saw that she didn't. "_New_ for me too. Things with you are _different_, and I... don't want to ruin it." His eyes had softened, and he'd reached out to stroke her cheek. "You mean a lot to me, Lydia."

He'd been content to let her cuddle up to him, had even pulled her closer when she'd been reluctant, scared of... invading his space or getting too close or too caught up in it. He held her at night when she had bad dreams, loaned her his clothes to sleep in, soothed her when she didn't feel well. He made her dinner and breakfast, took care of her without being asked. And for a long time she'd thought it was too good to be true (spoiler alert: it was), that he had to have some angle or want something more from her. She'd been waiting and waiting for a catch, expecting him to falter or fail or bail, but it didn't come, not when she was expecting it to.

When it finally did come, she trusted him and... couldn't believe what was happening.

She should've known better, but he'd seemed so serious and _intent_ about it... and maybe she'd wanted to believe him more than she actually did. She'd wished herself into believing in him because she _wanted_ to believe—and he was, for a time, the best thing in her life. Before it all had gone so horribly wrong, he'd been the perfect boyfriend. He'd been all she could ever possibly want and all she'd never known she wanted or needed. He was fun in a way she'd never thought a committed relationship could be. He made her laugh and made her smile. He said all the right things, sweet things that no one had ever said to her, and he'd said them like he meant them. Maybe a part of him did.

And yes, maybe she _had_ to think that so she'd feel like less of a fool for missing so many of the other things. The many warning signs that this wasn't going to end well—that this was going to _end_—that had popped up along the way.

And the way he looked at her—no one had _ever_ looked at her like that before—like she was worth something more than what anyone thought. It was like she was finally enough for him (for anyone, really), like she was beautiful and rare and precious just the way she was. George saw right through her, down to bones and marrow to who she was at her core. He looked at her, and she felt _naked_. Lydia felt like all the layers of bright polish, candy, and sparkles she'd pained and coated herself in over the years were stripped away, and she was somehow more herself. For the first time in a long time, possibly since she was a child, she felt comfortable and all right in her own skin, like she could be her _true_ self with him.

Even know, she didn't want to think that all of that was a lie, that he was just using her the whole time for reasons she would still never fully understand. Some of it had been real for him too; it had to be. Like those nights when they'd sat side by side on his porch swing, her hand in his, their fingers intertwined, watching the sunrise and thinking it would last forever—that there wouldn't be one more sunrise or sunset where they weren't together, where he wasn't in her life.

When you're in love, you always think it's gonna last forever.

She'd always known that. It had been part of the reason why she'd been so reluctant to commit to anything, much less needlessly give one more person in her life leave to hurt her. If she thought of men as disposable, used them for her pleasure and then dropped them; well, it stopped them from doing that to her first or, worse, _leaving_ her. She wasn't dumb enough to buy into Lifetime movies or the pack of lies about love that every rom-com ever made tried to sell you. She didn't want to be vulnerable and enter into something too serious when she knew that wasn't where her life was at; at least, that's what she thought she knew. Like a truth universally acknowledged: The Lydia Bennet does not _do_ relationships. She hadn't wanted to hurt anyone, especially not herself.

And what if she finally cared enough to let her guard down and just let someone in, giving him the power to hurt her, and he saw her for who she was and didn't like what he saw? What if he liked her but not enough? She scared him off because he couldn't take her particular brand of crazy, so he walked away... and just like that it was over?

Because if you didn't think it was going to last forever, well, then why bother? Why not spare yourself the heartache and drama and work and only have fun? She already failed at so much, after all; romantic relationships were hardly an exception. She'd seen more with George, though, enough so that she could ignore her common sense and better judgment and everything else others had said about him. And when it had been great, it had been really great and almost worth it.

But everything ends, and they'd been no exception. It had been over before it had begun; she just hadn't known it then.

It hadn't ended exactly like that, which only made it worse. If it had, then it would be simple (everything about George was _complicated_), and she wouldn't be so damn screwed up. She could've understood that, as much as it sucked. Lydia could've just written him off as someone else she'd let get too close, and she'd gotten burned and so what. She wouldn't still be thinking about him, a ball of mixed-up feelings, wondering what about their relationship had just existed in her head.

And what they didn't tell you about falling in love was that, when it ends, all you've got are the bittersweet memories, a few mementos that fit in a box and are meaningless to anyone else, anyone who wasn't there, and the void—the profoundness of His absence from her side. It was as if he'd been torn away from her, leaving her rent, but he hadn't been... he was just... _gone_. And, once again, she was alone, lonely.

She was addicted to it, to him, addicted to that feeling of love and being loved in return. His acceptance was like a drug, and she couldn't get enough. It had been a very long time since she'd known what it felt like to feel... well, not quite normal, not quite complete, but something like it. As close as she'd ever get. Some days she almost thinks she misses that feeling more than she misses George himself, but the dull ache that is the lack of him in her life says otherwise.

Lydia hooked her index finger under the chain of her necklace, holding the stone up to the light and watching the way it sparkled. The way he'd looked like her, it had felt like that. She stared at the stone and tried not to think of him, but trying to do that was like trying to stop breathing. She remembered the scrape of his stubble on her face as he kissed her. She remembered the way his muscular, strong shoulders felt under her fingers. The blood rushed to her cheeks as she remembered kissing each ridge of the perfect abs she'd so admired, the way he'd sucked in a breath when she did. She looked down and remembered how gentle he'd been with her.

She remembered the way his fingers skimmed her lower back before ultimately settling there when they were walking, how his hands had felt: calloused but smooth. She remembered the way his arm fit around her so perfectly and drew her into his side. Lydia remembered the way he held her at night, like she was precious. The reassuring weight and warmth of him wrapped around her body like a blanket, his nose faintly nuzzling her shoulder, the back of her neck. And she remembered the lovestruck way she'd looked at him, how she thought it had been mirrored in his eyes, but the video footage of her stupidity was on the internet for everyone to see.

Sometimes she tried not to remember.

Because, at the end of the day, all she had was the memories and a shoebox filled with meaningless tickets and receipts and photos (lots of photos) and this necklace. And now, every time she looked at a sunrise, an irrational part of her asked herself whether or not she thought the sun was still rising on a new day or... if it was setting, and she just didn't know it.

One day at a time, everyone said.

Well, the sun had set on her and George. Lydia shut her eyes, stubbornly blocking out the light, though it still filtered through the pink skin of her eyelids. She wished she could forget him or excise him from her mind so easily.

She would never see the sky the same way again, but she would learn to forget him. In time.

- Loren ;*


End file.
